


The Island In The River Affair

by lasergirl



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-03
Updated: 2010-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-08 16:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl





	The Island In The River Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [farad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/gifts).



  


**THE ISLAND IN THE RIVER AFFAIR**

  
OPENING GAMBIT: "... a sea monster?..."

"Ah. Mister Solo." Waverly looked up from his dossier-laden table as the office doors opened to admit his invited guest.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Napoleon's face was the mirror of his thoughts and hopes. He had only been called into Waverly's office twice before, and both for rather exciting assignments. He was still only a junior enforcement agent, but as the saying went, third time's a charm....

"Ah, yes," Waverly rumbled, putting another folder onto the table's edge and spun it gently to rest in front of Napoleon. "No doubt you've heard by now that Mr. Kuryakin's assignment in Marajó is compromised. Our South American field offices haven't heard from him since 0500 hours yesterday morning. He was to rendezvous with a retrieval team at Isla Méxicana but when their team arrived, they found only his field kit and communicator roughly hidden near the meeting place."

Napoleon frowned and leafed through the flimsy report. There were photographs of Illya's pack and several close-ups of the greenery they had been shoved into to hide it. It appeared as if the communicator had been ground underfoot, and the pieces were lodged in the mud under a messy footprint.

"Are there any leads?"

"Mister Kuryakin was investigating reports of peculiar sightings in the Amazon estuary." Waverly cleared his throat. "You'll find the necessary information in your dossier."

Napoleon turned to the pages regarding Illya's assignment and his eyebrow arched. "Is this some kind of joke, sir? A sea monster?" How would he live that down in the commissary?

"No cracks, Mister Solo. The reports may have been doubtful, but Mister Kuryakin's disappearance is not. You leave in two hours."

"Yes, sir."

**

ACT I: "...and a partridge in a banana tree..."

The transport plane was little more than a bucket of bolts, left over from 1945 and showing its age. Napoleon sat hunched against the uncomfortable bulkheads, head down, reviewing his entrance plan. The plane would drop in over the ocean, following the Amazon coastline, and he would part ways with his ride at just under 1,000 feet.

He felt his ears pressurize as the plane descended and cracked his jaw to clear them. The humming drone of the twin engines changed pitch, and he knew they were coming in over the ocean on their approach. He pushed himself to his feet and began a systematic double- and triple-check of his gear. The heavy pack on his back held the main chute, piggybacking on with his U.N.C.L.E. issue survival rucksack. On his chest was strapped the reserve, and on his thigh a handsome machete.

The plane banked, and the red light that had been glowing by the tail hatch switched to amber. Napoleon did a few deep knee bends and shook blood circulation to his chilled toes. He fitted goggles over his eyes and reached up to hook the carabiner of his static line to the guy wire stretched taut down the hold of the plane.

And then the light flashed green, the crewman at the tail hatch cranked the door open and Napoleon dropped out into the open air.

One second is not long to wait, unless it's for a low-altitude parachute to snap open, but in that second Napoleon felt the same thrill he always did, the 'one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, pull -' mantra for the reserve chute humming through his body. The static line jerked above him and there was the rattle and blossom of silk and he knew he was safely away.

They had chosen the approach just before dawn broke the canopy of mist over the Amazonian rainforest, and in the grey-pink light Napoleon saw the trees looming heavily on one bank and the rippled silver back of the river below. The plane was already climbing away from the drop zone, engines droning on, and then the high reaches of the trees blocked the view as Napoleon descended into the primeval forest.

As he readied himself for the landing, Napoleon glanced below him. The wind was carrying him away from the bank, towards the centre of the river. The currents could be strong as the tides receded, and naturally he was concerned about getting caught up in them. He heaved on his front right suspension line, aiming towards the shallows.

There was a swift flurry of activity in the water below him, a school of fish fleeing from something dark. A predator? From above it looked like no fish he'd ever seen. It had a stubby body and wide fins and seemed to cut through the water more than propel itself. Was that a slender neck? Napoleon twisted around to see more, but he was already less than ten feet above the water. Silver fish darted beneath his booted feet, and he splashed into the sandbar with slightly more force than he'd anticipated. One ankle protested with a sharp flare of pain. The parachute gusted sideways and dragged him off balance, nearly pulling him completely underwater before Napoleon could get his hands to the harness buckles. The dark shape was nearby, bigger than he'd thought from the air, moving swiftly away from him through a cloud of silver fish. He came free of the harness and surfaced with a gasp for air.

He was forty feet from shore, on a miraculous sandbar between two deeper, faster-flowing channels that rushed past him towards the freedom of the sea. The swim would have been no problem but for the U.N.C.L.E. rucksack weighing him down. He would have to choose his footing carefully. His parachute, detached only a few seconds earlier, had caught the current and was streaming down river like a vast jellyfish.

Undeterred, Napoleon took a length of thin cord from his pack and fastened one end to one of the d-rings on his web belt. The other end he secured to the harness of his rucksack and shrugged it off. It promptly sank. It was thankfully watertight, but he didn't need the extra weight dragging him down. Then he struck out for shore.

The current was strong, but the current nearer the shore was not as swift as on the other side of the sandbar, and Napoleon found he made decent headway without too much drift. What concerned him more, however, was the school of silver fish dogging his heels. They had fled from the dark underwater creature, but were now flocking around him. Why? He offered no protection from -

Oh.

There was a darting nibble at his calf, and the school tickled between his legs and arms. A warmth spread under his trouser leg that he supposed was blood. Of course.

Piranhas.

There was no time for thrashing about or attempting to evade the fish. It would only draw more attention to himself and achieve nothing. Napoleon set his sights on the shore and swam for his life.

After what seemed like an eternity of painful, nipping bites and choking breaths, he pulled himself from the deadly waterway, bleeding from every limb, his fatigues in tatters. Thankfully, the line was still attached to his web belt, and he hauled on the thin cord to retrieve his pack. It came slowly, reluctant to cut through the water now boiling with excited, ravenous fish. At last it came ashore and Napoleon dragged it, and himself, into the cover of the trees further up the bank.

There was a first aid field kit in the pack, but he didn't get a chance to use it. No sooner had he flung himself into a sodden heap at the foot of a tree, than he felt the cold steel of a firearm at the back of his neck. Gritting his teeth, he steeled himself for action.

"Don't turn around, dear boy," the voice was lazy and cultured with an English accent as thick as custard. "I assure you that my man will have no qualms about blowing your head off if you resist. Now, do get up to your knees."

Napoleon raised himself and gingerly put his hands up. There was a small, needle-sharp knife secured between his shoulder and if he was forced to put his hands at his neck he might have a chance.

"Not so fast." The voice turned hard as granite. "Mister Swift, would you please remove this young man's weaponry?"

The gun at his skull did not waver, and a man came into Napoleon's line of vision. He was wearing a light-coloured safari outfit and a broad canvas hat. He patted Napoleon down, relieving him of every sharp implement and his U.N.C.L.E. Special.

"My, quite a stockpile you have. Junior Enforcement Agent? Yes, I thought so. Arms behind you if you would be so kind,"

Shackles clattered around Napoleon's wrists and elbows, pinning him so efficiently he felt like a mounted insect. He winced. "Holding a gun to an unarmed man," he clucked. "Not sporting."

"The jungle has its own rules I'm afraid," said the lazy voice. "I'm certain the jaguars would give you a harsher bargain."

The man known as Swift took Napoleon's wrists and forced him to his feet. Napoleon turned to look at his captor with a scowl.

He was, quite simply, a British Squire. Transplanted to the Amazonian rainforest to be sure, but everything about the man pronounced respectability. His boots and gaiters were polished to a high gleam, and his khakis were nearly immaculate. He was carrying the shotgun that until lately had been held to Napoleon's skull.

"Who are you?" Napoleon snarled.

"That will never do," said the Squire. "Manners, boy, manners. Or you'll never make Senior Enforcement Agent."

"To whom do I have the pleasure?" The scowl didn't leave his face, but the anger in Napoleon's voice toned itself down.

"That's more like it. My name is Partridge. G. Emory Partridge, late of the 7th Hussars and the Sudan Defense Force. And you, dear boy, are an agent from the U.N.C.L.E. if I am not mistaken."

"Napoleon Solo," said Napoleon grimly.

"Little wonder you're such a fighter," remarked Partridge. "Though you have a ways to go yet. And now, if you'll hold still a moment. Mister Swift?"

A black bag, reeking of chloroform, came down over Napoleon's head with a jerk. His last words were only a muffled mumble in his own ears.

**

ACT II: "... trussed like a Christmas turkey..."

So this was how he'd end up in the U.N.C.L.E. register of deceased field agents. Napoleon Solo, 28, junior enforcement agent, promising career cut short by a crazed Brit in some steaming, horrible jungle prison.

Napoleon swallowed. His tongue felt swollen and his head throbbed with every beat of his heart. Without opening his eyes, he took stock of his surroundings. He was bruised and sore from the parachute landing and the gashes on his arms and legs were caked in dried blood. His hands were still manacled behind him and a weight on his elbows meant a chain was attached, probably to the wall. From not far off there was the sound of dripping water and the tiny squeak of rodents. A little nearer was the sound of someone else's' breathing.

Napoleon opened one eye. He was in a stone-walled cell and it was very dark. He could make out a small patch of moonlight on the cobbled floor, and halfway in and halfway out of it was a slender figure, his hair silvered in the glow.

"Kuryakin?" Napoleon croaked with a dry throat and a wheeze. He had seen the blond Russian agent in passing, but they had little reason to chitchat within U.N.C.L.E. The figure stirred a little, raising its head.

"If you're here to rescue me, I applaud you. But I'm not going anywhere and neither are you." The voice was flat and exhausted. The clank of metal on stone told Napoleon that Illya, too, was chained.

"Are you badly hurt?"

"The missus is going to love you," grunted Illya. His accent wasn't as thick as Napoleon had supposed, coloured lightly with a touch of Cambridge. "Wait until morning." He shifted his face away from Napoleon and lapsed back into sleep.

Napoleon tried to stay awake, but the aftereffects of the drugging, the slow drip of water and his fellow captive's restful breathing lulled him back into the comfort of sleep.

**

The following morning brought more indignities. Apart from being trussed up like a Christmas turkey, Napoleon found that his battledress was rather the worse for wear after his encounter with the piranhas. His shirt was ripped and bloodied and his trousers hung in rags. One long tear exposed nearly the full length of his leg from ankle to thigh. He couldn't move without some part of his body reminding him of its hurts. While he tried to find a sitting position that was both comfortable and modest, Illya watched him through barely-opened eyes. He was either smirking or conserving his strength: the light was little better during the day, but Napoleon could see that he was rather the worse for wear. One arm was mummied in a careful wrap of cotton gauze and sticking plaster and the way he laid, Napoleon suspected a fractured rib or two.

"So you're the one they've sent," Illya remarked. His voice was thick and hoarse. "Solo, yes? You're the notorious ladies' man. Perhaps you can charm your way out of this mess."

Napoleon frowned at him. "There was little information on your whereabouts. My landing was only an educated guess."

"And your capture a complete surprise," sighed Illya. Well. This isn't exactly the way I'd expected to be rescued," "Your timing is impeccable. Your dress, however, leaves something to be desired."

"Believe me, this was not the plan. The wardrobe alterations are courtesy of some fine fishy friends in the river I came down in."

"Ah, yes. Those are Partridge's newest method of border control. They're scientifically engineered to feed off humans. One of the guards fell into the river last week and he wasn't so lucky." Illya grunted and attempted to shift his position a little on the hard floor.

"Border control and guards? What kind of place is this?"

"Partridge runs this island like a feudal estate. He's imported what seems to be an entire disbanded regiment of soldiers to guard it. The activity centres around the seaward coast of the island, but I wasn't able to determine what was going on before I was discovered." Illya huddled forward on his haunches so they could not be overheard. "Did they take all of your field equipment when they captured you?"

Napoleon took mental stock of his belongings. The obvious weapons, his gun, machete and knife, were safely in the hands of Mr. Swift, while the shredding of his clothing had left his lock pick kit sinking to the bottom of the Amazon.

"I still have my incendiary bootlaces. I'm just -" Napoleon wriggled around, attempting to find even a fraction of an inch of leeway in his bonds. "- A little tied up right now."

"Hold still." Illya shifted in his chains until he was flat on his stomach, then inched forward towards Napoleon's feet. He took a lace between his teeth and began to tug at it. Eventually, the tight knot gave way and he worked the lace out through the eyelet holes.

"How refreshing." Napoleon offered his other foot. "Do you also do manicures?"

"Oh, can you be serious, please!" Illya hissed. "I've been in this stinking dungeon five days already and you're making jokes. I want to go home."

Their brief argument was stifled by the sound of a door creaking open in the stone corridor outside their cell. Instantly, Illya shrank into himself, secreting the precious bootlace under his own skinny body as he curled back up against the wall.

"Well, well, I see our two little birds are awake." It was the lazy voice of Partridge, followed by two other people. Napoleon could hear the difference in footsteps as they gathered outside the cell door. The long stride with good-quality walking boots would be Partridge. There was a second man, also in boots, that could have been Swift, and a third person he could barely hear. Small shoes, possibly a woman; the footsteps were light enough.

The bolt clattered heavily back on the cell door and a precise, blinding beam of light accompanied the groaning of the rusty hinges. Illya ducked his head into his shoulder to avoid the light, while Napoleon was momentarily dazzled.

"My, isn't he a handsome one." The third set of footsteps had belonged to a woman after all, and she cooed after Napoleon in a quavering British accent. "Emory, don't you think that we've asked Mister Kuryakin enough for this week? Perhaps if we give him a small rest he'll be able to rethink his priorities."

"Now, Edith, you aren't just saying that, are you?" Partridge asked her.

"No, dear. I should very much like to get to know Mister Solo. That is, if you don't mind."

"Not in the slightest. Mister Swift, if you'd be so kind."

"Up, you." Swift muscled into the cell with the flashlight, shining it into Napoleon's eyes to blind and disorient him. He unlocked the chain from the wall and forced Napoleon to his feet. "Now start walking. And no funny business."

Napoleon did as he was told because the flashlight was fixed to the barrel of a deadly-looking rifle.

**

ACT III: "... in the conversation room..."

"This is what I call my 'conversation room," said Edith Partridge pleasantly. "It is really more of a curiosity piece but I do like to keep the artifacts in working order."

Napoleon glanced around and his heart sank. Lining the walls, and arranged like furniture, were a number of antique wooden constructions. He recognized most of them from the 'How To Survive Torture' seminar during his entrance examinations.

"You know, I had rather thought about using the rack, but it has proved so useful that there's hardly any fun in it anymore," explained Edith as she tottered about the chamber on her sturdy little heels. Your friend Kuryakin is quite a defiant fellow."

"So I've heard," Napoleon said flatly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of hearing fear wavering in his voice.

"I hadn't thought to try him on this one," and Edith fondly patted the frame bearing an inclined board. "He's so slight I'd worry he'd do himself some serious harm. This device requires someone a little more... substantial. I think you should do nicely."

Napoleon tensed himself in preparation. The shackles would have to come off and then he might just have a chance at freeing himself.

"No funny business." Swift yanked on the restraints and led Napoleon at gunpoint to the water board. "You make any move I don't like and you'll be dead before you know it."

Edith unlocked the elbow shackles and chained Napoleon's wrists to the frame of the water board. Swift wrestled him over sideways and fastened the straps across his chest and legs.

"Well, now," Napoleon grunted as his world was flipped upside down and the blood rushed to his head. "You really know how to treat a guest."

"It isn't personal, Mister Solo, I hope you understand that." Edith retrieved a large silver pitcher of water from a stand near the door. "Now, let's get down to business. You are from the U.N.C.L.E. of course. Your demeanor more than confirms that fact. What is your assignment on Isla de Fleches?"

"I came for the marine life." Napoleon watched the pitcher hover above his face. Edith Partridge's face was stony.

"Dear boy, I wasn't born yesterday." She tilted the pitcher and a thin stream of water sliced out. It was icy cold, and at the shock of it caused Napoleon to tense up. He tried to hold his breath against the onslaught but it was unrelenting, filling his nose and mouth.

If he blew the water out of his mouth, he'd have no oxygen left, but the icy pressure was forcing its way into his sinuses. His lungs were burning, there were dark spots and flashes of colour dancing before his eyes. His heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He strained against his bonds, trying to move out of the path of Edith's pitcher. Nothing worked.

And then, it happened. Despite his resolve, his body betrayed him. An agonized bubble of air forced its way out of his lungs. The inbreath drew more than a mouthful of water down his throat and that was it. He'd had it. He was drowning on dry land.

Impossibly, the water stopped and the board tipped up.

"Breathe," Edith commanded.

Napoleon coughed and choked and gasped for air, and gradually the black dancing spots in his vision subsided.

"Now, then, I'll ask you again. U.N.C.L.E. sent you to rescue your friend Kuryakin, didn't they? He knows too much so I'm afraid he'll have to stay here. You, however, have been given a choice. Tell me what you know and you might be able to walk out of here unharmed."

"It won't do," Napoleon wheezed. "Illya's told me everything."

"That's unfortunate." The board tipped back down. "I was so hoping that you'd cooperate."

The second time, Napoleon knew what to expect, but it was no better. His body was already rebelling against his commands, shivering and twitching and spasming under the cold stream of water. Such a simple technique, and yet so primeval. Like fear of the dark, the fear of drowning was deeply ingrained in the human psyche. Not the fear of death - death was the end, a relief - but the fear of a long, slow, agonizing descent towards that end.

He took in another lungful of water and retched and choked on it until his vision blacked out. Dizzyingly, the board flipped up again.

"No one is going to commend you for your resistance," Edith told him sweetly. "It would be so much easier for you if you'd only tell me what you know. I don't want to do this, you must understand that. But Emory is ever so proud of his island paradise that he would do anything to protect its existence. And I have sworn to love, honour and obey."

"And torture," Napoleon gagged. He was shivering in the chill dungeon air and the freezing water didn't help.

"I'm so sorry." The board flipped back down and the water resumed.

This was it; Napoleon knew it. Worse than being found chained in a dungeon by someone sent to rescue him, he would now be just an entry on the MIA register. But even those thoughts were forced out of his mind by the sheer numbing terror of the pouring water. He'd have to give in eventually, or die in the process. The room began to spin before his eyes, sounds echoing tinnily in his ears. His heart was crawling up his throat, attempting to escape.

Abruptly, the water stopped and there was a pained, shrill cry from Edith Partridge. "Swift! Get him!" The pitcher hit the flagstones with a clatter, and there were sounds of a struggle. Napoleon strained to see what was going on, but he was too dizzy and could barely breathe. He heard Edith's sensible shoes running away, and the thump as a body hit the floor, and then the board tipped up again. He gasped in the blessed air and the panic subsided.

"We must get out of here, Napoleon. The soldiers have staged a coup." Illya's voice was shaky, but his resolve was strong. He unlocked the shackles pinning Napoleon to the water board, and helped him up. Despite his best efforts, Napoleon sagged into his arms, still weak at the knees. The adrenaline had flooded his body with terror and he was still twitching and uncoordinated.

"Give me a moment," he gasped, but Illya took a firm grip on him and hauled him upright.

"I don't fancy you'd want to stick around. Keep moving."

The two of them stumbled through the mazelike corridors of the dungeon area, emerging finally into a walled courtyard with a high arch. There was the sound of distant gunfire and shouting in Spanish.

"How are we going to get out of here?" Napoleon panted with the effort. "It sounds like we're surrounded."

Illya looked around shrewdly. "From where I came in, there's a passageway down to the river. There's a way out from there.

"Oh, no," Napoleon balked at the thought. "If I see water ever again it will be too soon. First piranhas and then... *that*...."

"Don't worry, you shall scarcely get your feet wet. Follow me." Illya hurried across the courtyard with Napoleon in tow, towards an arched doorway set with steel bars. He tripped the hidden catch and the door gave way. They descended into a narrow tunnel, the ceiling low and covered in dripping moss, scraped into the bedrock of the island.

"Ugh." Napoleon shivered as something wet brushed past his face. Illya turned back on him.

"What's the matter now?"

"Nothing, I just...-" Napoleon stemmed the wave of panic that was rising inside, threatening to drown him. "The board. I've never....-"

"Barbaric," snapped Illya. "Unnecessary."

"I've never wanted to die so quickly in my whole life," Napoleon said very softly. It was almost a whisper, and Illya could have missed it. But no, he stopped and turned.

"You are that much stronger for it, Napoleon," he said bluntly. "I doubt there are many junior officers who could have stood that for as long as you did."

"But I didn't! I wanted to give up. I was drowning." For some reason, Napoleon couldn't stop himself. In the close confines of the narrow tunnel, in the semi-darkness and rising damp, it felt safe. No one would ever know, except Illya. "I was frightened."

Illya stepped closer to him, and for a moment the two of them stood nearly face to face. Napoleon willed the trembling in his body to subside. Then Illya took both of his hands and grasped them tight.

"My friend, there are things in this world we are all frightened of. That we overcome those fears is a testament to humanity. You did a very brave thing today. Do another and follow me to safety and I promise you won't have to give up to anyone. Ever."

That was the push Napoleon needed. He took a deep breath, gave Illya's hands one last squeeze, and then the two of them moved off down the tunnel.

  
**

ACT IV: "...escape by sea monster..."

The tunnel disgorged them into a dimly-lit underground chamber, most of which was an underground lagoon. The water-washed rock shone wetly with dripping moisture and reflected the subdued light that came in from under the water. Sitting low in the water and rocking slightly was a heavy, dark shape with a long neck and fins. Napoleon placed it at once.

"So that's Waverly's sea monster, is it?"

Illya looked quizzically at him. "You were sent to find a sea monster?"

"Well, and to find you. To be honest, I didn't believe in it until I saw it in the river."

"Yes, Partridge uses it as his runabout to the mainland. A sort of mythical beast to scare away the locals. They're quite petrified of it. They call it the 'Bringer of Hungry Mouths' because his pet piranhas like to follow it around."

"I had figured as much." Napoleon's clothing was in rags because of those hungry mouths. "Is it safe?"

"There's really only one way to find out." Illya tugged on the bow spring and the little craft bobbed nearer the docking platform. There was an open hatch in its back. "You first."

It was a tight fit inside, meant probably for only one person and supplies, but Illya was quite slender and the two of them fit inside with only a minor amount of struggling. Napoleon sat at the controls which he found very similar to those of an aircraft.

"You're trusting me to drive this thing?" He pushed a button that was marked 'starter' and pushed what he hopped was the rudder bar with his feet. The little machine responded with an electric whir and a lurch forward in the water. "Do you have any idea where we're going?"

"I swam in with an air tank," Illya said sourly. "My maps were confiscated when I was discovered, but I'd memorized a fair amount. After we leave the grotto there's a channel that leads into the deeper water. It'll be rough going against the tide at this hour, but I think we'll have a chance to head upriver to the original retrieval zone. I expect your communicator was taken?"

"There's a kind of transmitter on this thing," Napoleon bit his lip as he steered the monster through a narrow tunnel carved out of a cleft in the rock. Beyond, strong currents whipped the underwater vegetation into a maelstrom of green. "Hold on, this might be a bit bumpy."

The small craft was buffeted around the widening passageway, but thanks to Napoleon's skills there were no collisions. Illya let out an audible sigh as they finally gained open water.

"Head East," he ordered shortly. "I'll see what I can do about communications." He leaned over Napoleon's shoulder and pried the face off the radio transmission unit built into the tiny dashboard. A tangle of wires peered back at him. Illya squinted at the curling mass.

"You need an extra hand there?" Illya's face was so close to his that Napoleon didn't even have to look back over his shoulder. He could feel warm breath on his cheek.

"No," Illya muttered, picking through the wires. His tongue was protruding slightly from between his lips in concentration. Napoleon tried to keep his attention on the watery world outside the viewing window and found himself failing. The greenish light cast from the world above the river gave him an unearthly tint, his cheekbones carved in ivory and his eyes impossibly blue.

The steering column jerked as they hit a stronger current, and Napoleon wrestled with the monster's controls, trying to steer back on course. Illya lost his precarious balance and fell, toppling heavily onto Napoleon's shoulder. He swore cryptically in Russian.

"This really would be easier if you'd stay on a level," he griped. "I can't splice this with you swerving around like that. Stay straight."

To shut him up, Napoleon did something he'd barely even dreamed about: he kissed Illya.

It was sloppy, and missed half of Illya's pouting lips, but it worked. For a stunned moment there was nothing but silence in the underwater craft. Then Illya spoke.

"Did you just - ?" A warm blush was colouring his cheeks. He touched the corner of his mouth with two fingers.

"I did just." Napoleon kept his voice - and the control yoke - steady.

"I thought." The tongue protruded again and Illya bent back to work. "It isn't fair. Wait until I can give you my full attention, will you?"

Napoleon chuckled. "And here I thought we weren't going to get along."

Illya's expression was unreadable, but there was a spark of dry humor in his voice. "They told me you were a playboy. The worst kind of Western petit-bourgeoisie."

"Did it ever occur to you they might be lying?"

"Well, they might have been lying but they weren't wrong about some things."

"Such as?"

"Well, for one thing, they never mentioned you were a good kisser." There was that little hint of a smile on the corner of Illya's mouth as he bent in concentration, twisting two wires together with his fingertips. A spark jumped in the space and he jerked back. "There, try it now."

"Open Channel H, North American Relay." There was a buzz of static and a woman's voice came through faintly.

"Channel H, go ahead please."

"This is Napoleon Solo. I'm, uh, escaping from an island in a sea monster."

There was confused silence on the other end of the connection, and Illya giggled behind his hand. "I'm sorry, did you say a sea monster, Mister Solo?"

"Yes. Well, no. Well, it's a kind of underwater... machine...." Napoleon said lamely. Illya cleared his throat and leaned into the dashboard microphone.

"It's a submersible craft disguised as a Boto," he said smoothly, "An Amazonian cetacean. Dolphin," he added for Napoleon's benefit, grinning at his bemusement. "We're headed upriver towards the original rendezvous point at the Eastern tip of Isla Méxicana. Can you scramble a retrieval unit?"

The woman's voice came back smoothly. "ETA is two hours thirty-five minutes to scramble from our San Juan Station. Do you require medical assistance?"

Illya glanced at Napoleon, and replied dryly, "My partner will require a change of clothing."

"Gee, thanks," Napoleon griped, but he couldn't help notice how Illya had referred to him. "Just get them here as soon as you can, Patti. Solo out."

"They were right about you being a playboy," Illya said with a sideways glance at Napoleon. "How do you know her name? Isn't she in Brazil?"

"That is a personal matter," Napoleon huffed. "But it just so happens I was in Brazil last month on an assignment, and-"

"-Oh, don't tell me." Illya hunched back into the cargo space with a huff. "Are we there yet? What's the current like?"

Napoleon checked his instruments. With the oceanic tide incoming, they were travelling faster than anticipated. But with more speed came difficulties in pinpointing their exact location. "I'm having trouble reading this display. The white blips are what?"

Illya leaned over his shoulder in time to see the small screen explode into a mass of white dots. "What did you do?"

"Me? I didn't do anything!" Napoleon yelped as the submersible slewed to one side. He fought to keep it upright by jamming his feet on the rubber bar. That seemed to have no effect. There was a horrible grating noise along the outer plating of the machine and they ground to a halt.

"That," Illya said, extricating himself from Napoleon's person, "Wasn't nothing." A trickle of water was dancing down the inside hull, puddling near their feet. "Might I suggest we get to the surface as soon as possible?"

Napoleon couldn't help the cold shiver that shook down his spine. His heart started to hammer at his ribs. He hauled back on the control stick and hoped the little craft could nose up to the surface. Illya crouched under the hatch, checking the gauges.

"A little further or we'll never get the airlock open."

"That's as far as I can get it," Napoleon grunted. The controls were shuddering in his hands and the engine whined loudly, but they were at a standstill. "The current's pushing too hard to surface. How deep are we?"

"Less that two feet. I think I can get the hatch open." Illya pulled on the hand wheel that unlocked the airlock. He put his shoulder to it and pushed. A tiny bubble of air escaped the seal and a spurt of water poured over his head. He sputtered, shaking himself like an indignant cat. "You might have to help me."

Together they pushed on the hatch and it creaked open, flooding the inside of the craft with rushing river water. Napoleon took a deep breath and waited, counting the heartbeats until they could swim free. Illya pointed upwards, his fair hair swirling around his head like blond sea grass. Freedom!

Napoleon broke through the river's surface with a gasp, clawing his way to the first solid object he could get his hands on. The submersible was wedged half under a fallen log and the current was holding it pinned against several hefty boulders. He clambered up the slippery surface of the log, holding out a hand for Illya to follow him.

As they made their way to the river's bank, there was a commotion on the far shore.

"Beastly things, Emory! What made you think they would be a good idea?" There was a great deal of splashing and squawking, and Napoleon could just make out the drenched, ragged figures of G Emory Partridge and his wife dragging themselves onto the opposite bank. Their footsteps were dogged by the flashing silver forms of the hungry piranhas.

Partridge flailed at the water with the butt of his shotgun, trying to repel his fish. "Even in the Sudan, the opposition were never as savage at this!" The frantic yelling continued until they had reached the riverbank. Emory helped his wife to her feet.

"Darling, I didn't expect things to end so badly," despite his appearance, he was still every bit the English gentleman. "I am so sorry. Whatever can I do to make it up to you?"

"I just want to go home, Emory," Edith cooed, "The old estate. Don't you want to see it again?"

"The climate is a good deal more temperate than this jungle hell," Partridge confessed. He took his wife's hand. "If we get home safely I promise I will build you a gazebo. Then it won't matter if it's rain or shine."

"Oh, Emory!" Edith stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. "Do you suppose we might also have a hedge maze? I've been reading about them recently and they are positively fascinating!"

"I don't see why not. Come along, my darling, we have a long way to yet." They joined hands and disappeared into the underbrush. Napoleon watched them go. He couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of satisfaction that the Partridges were finally getting a taste of their own medicine.

"Aren't you going to stop them?" Illya asked at his elbow.

"With what? I think I've got a pointed stick somewhere." Napoleon chuckled. "Besides, those two deserve each other, don't you think?"

Illya's stony demeanor cracked into a brief smile. "I don't think they're the only ones. Look at us."

The two of them were smeared with riverbank mud, bedraggled and garnished with weeds and they were soaked to the skin. Napoleon looked at his trousers, hanging in rags, and his pale legs bleeding from numerous tiny fish bites and couldn't help but laugh.

"I don't think Waverly quite expected this mission to be quite so revealing," Illya deadpanned. Napoleon groaned.

"How long do we have until the retrieval team arrives?"

Illya squinted at the position of the sun in the sky and said, "Two hours."

"Well, I've got some time to kill." Napoleon settled down at the base of a tree and sighed. "What about you?"

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was held hostage in a power generating station in Siberia?" Illya began. He sat cross-legged next to Napoleon and leaned back on the tree trunk. "It was winter and the ice causeway was barricaded by terrorists...."

**

EPILOGUE: "...happily ever after..."

"Well done Mister Solo, Mister Kuryakin," Waverly rumbled in appreciation as he leafed through the agents' final reports. "There were some concerns that you two wouldn't see eye-to-eye but you seem to have reconciled your differences quite nicely."

"I am a little disappointed that Partridge got away," Napoleon said, sounding a little sullen. "I feel I could have done much better. If I hadn't been captured-"

"-No 'ifs' Mister Solo. You located Mister Kuryakin and the two of you managed to escape with little harm to yourselves. That is commendable. Political reports from the area indicate that the private land policed by Partridge has reverted to its native owners. Once he was gone, the coup burned itself out."

Illya spoke up. "And Partridge?"

"No sign of him, I'm afraid. We have information that indicates he may head to England as his family once owned property there, but our investigations have turned up very little." Waverly shuffled the folder together and signed off on the report. "I also have some very good news. McKinley and Lambert have transferred to our European branch and their office is vacant. I'm assigning you as Intermediate agents to Operations and Enforcement."

Napoleon smiled widely. "I'm honoured sir."

"This is, of course, pending your psychiatric debriefings with Section Six. Your treatment at the hands of Edith Partridge was of particular concern to me. I can't afford to have an Enforcement Agent who doesn't like to get his feet wet." Waverly stood and offered his hand first to Napoleon, then to Illya. "But don't worry, you'll both soon be good as new. Good luck!"

"Thank you, sir," Illya said, shaking firmly.

As they exited Waverly's office, Illya's face had returned to its usual unreadable mask, but Napoleon could see the excited twinkle in his eye. He knew the same gleam showed in his expression as well. Enforcement Agents! Partners! He wondered what the future would hold for them.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

"Come on," Napoleon said, taking his new partner by the elbow. "I'll buy you lunch. My treat."

END.


End file.
